


Sanity Clause

by EldritchTribble



Category: Marx Brothers (Movies), Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Crack Treated Seriously, Holodecks/Holosuites, M/M, gratuitous cuddling, in which jake holds his own against a master of comedic wordplay, in which quark's a clingy whine machine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-28
Updated: 2017-04-28
Packaged: 2018-10-24 20:11:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10748949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EldritchTribble/pseuds/EldritchTribble
Summary: A highly unlikely foe hijacks a holosuite on Deep Space Nine.





	Sanity Clause

**Author's Note:**

  * For [snoozlebee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snoozlebee/gifts).



> http://snoozlebee.tumblr.com/post/157470589451/star-trek-fanfiction-where-the-crew-of-the
> 
> I heard the call; I responded. It’s set on Deep Space Nine because I can, and an avalanche of crack because I must. 
> 
> This fic's premise takes much of its inspiration from the iconic stateroom scene in the Marx Brothers' film "A Night At The Opera", which I can't recommend highly enough. (link to the scene: https://youtu.be/8ZvugebaT6Q)

“Computer, end program.”

Uninvited, a diminutive figure barged into the holosuite, causing its lone occupant to topple gracelessly to the floor.

“Hey! I was sitting in that chair,” protested Jake. Nog helped him to his feet as he dusted off his clothes.

“And what, may I ask, were you doing in here in the first place? We had an agreement! 0900 hours sharp for Lieutenant Commander Worf’s cardio class!”

“Sorry, Nog. I guess I lost track of time a little.”

Nog planted his hands firmly on his hips and tutted in disapproval. “Typical. The one day a week you get out of bed before 1100 hours and you’re in the holosuites losing track of time. You know, I might’ve overlooked it if you were in the middle of ‘A Visit with the Pleasure Goddess of Rixx’. Knowing you, though, it was probably 3-D dom-jot…”

“For your information, Nog,” Jake rejoined, balking at Nog’s speculation, “I was here trying to improve my writing.”

Nog’s eyes gleamed with sudden interest. “Really? Trying to branch out with some more ‘profitable’ applications of your skills?”

“Nope,” replied Jake, offering his best friend a wide, guileless grin. Nog pursed his lips at him.

“Well, fill me in later. I’ve got to hurry to class.” He hiked his gym bag further up his shoulder, turned smartly on his heel, and walked out of the holosuite.

“Enjoy,” Jake called out to Nog’s retreating form. He could not help the fond chuckle that escaped him.

“Computer, load program Jake Sisko-beta-three,” he instructed. His program was extremely simple: a nondescript room, a spotlight, two comfortable chintz armchairs, and a certain personage from early twentieth-century Earth. That personage wore an oversized suit, a greasepaint mustache, round glasses, and an elegantly smarmy grin. One hand held a cigar that emitted blessedly holographic smoke, while his other hand extended toward Jake in a curt greeting.

“Pardon me, my name is Groucho Marx and I’ve always wanted to meet you, Mister –“

“Just Jake,” grinned Jake as he shook Groucho’s hand.

“Roscoe it is.”

Jake rolled his eyes but did not bother to correct the hologram.

“So, you’re looking to improve your writing, are you? How about this for starters?” Groucho assumed a theatrical pose, his cigar-bearing hand stretching gracefully toward the spotlight. “‘She walks in beauty like the night, of cloudless climes and starry skies.’”

“Last I checked, that’s Lord Byron,” Jake observed dryly, “and I’m trying to improve my _comedic_ writing, thank you very much.”

Groucho spun around to face him. “Well, now,” he said, launching a foot up onto an armrest and planting his elbow on his bent knee, “in that case I’m sure you’ll make a fine writer someday. I’ve always said that, outside of a dog, a book is a man’s best friend. Of course, inside of a dog it’s too dark to read. Space, on the other hand, is so dark it puts a dog’s insides to shame, and that certainly bodes well for your career.”

“I’ll _try_ to take that as a compliment.”

“A young man willing to fight for his own honor. I like you, Roscoe,” enthused Groucho. He took Jake’s hand and shook it, somewhat more warmly than the last time.

“So what would you consider the first principle of good comedic writing?” Jake inquired, taking a seat in one of the armchairs. Groucho followed suit, leaning forward confidentially and putting a hand to the side of his mouth.

“I’ll let you in on a little secret: it’s not enough to have the element of surprise on your side,” he disclosed. “Once you’ve established your premise, there’s nothing quite like drawing it out past all good sense. Allow me to demonstrate.”

Within the time it took Groucho to wink conspiratorially at Jake, the suite filled itself with bustling holograms: holograms of all shapes, sizes, species, and time periods. Casting an astonished double-take at his surroundings, Jake wondered how a holographic projection from pre-warp Earth could possibly have imagined the existence of half these beings. Perhaps he downloaded them from the database? For once, Jake wished he had spent more time studying the vagaries of holo-programming.

“Tell me, my impressionable friend, what have I just accomplished here?”

“You filled the holosuite with people?”

“Well, you win the red carnation. That’s the least astute observation I’ve ever heard,” chided Groucho, though he did not sound disappointed whatsoever. “What you may have missed, through no fault of your own, is that filling a room with people is _already_ a premise for a gag. So, if you are agreed, let’s see what happens when we take that premise and run with it. Or take the run and premise with it. You’ll learn either way.”

“I’m glad Garak’s not here,” murmured Jake in alarm, squeezing himself into the confines of the chair as the crowd milled around him.

The doors to the holosuite hissed open to admit a very confused O’Brien.

 “What’s going on in here, Jake?” he demanded, shoving his way through the horde. “This holosuite’s causing a power surge! There are outages all over the station! What are you – what the…?”

Groucho Marx realigned his matrix and rematerialized directly in front of Chief O’Brien. He was about a head shorter than the chief engineer under the best of circumstances, but his artfully slouched posture widened that gap even further.

“Ah. Just the man I want to see. Do you rumba?”

“I…”

“Well, take a rumba from one to ten.”

O’Brien eyed the hologram distrustfully. “Computer, remove characters…all characters except Groucho Marx from the program.”

Groucho’s tone grew sinister. “I’m sorry, but I am in the middle of a demonstration for this malleable young mind here, and would kindly request you to _scram_.”

In an attempt to catch O’Brien’s attention, Jake stood on tiptoes and waved over the mass of holograms. “Chief –“

“Computer, arch,” O’Brien commanded. “Computer, _end program_.”

The seething throng remained right where it was.

“You think I would let an upstart like you override me?” cackled Groucho. “Go, and never darken my towels again.”

At this, a viscous substance oozed through the minuscule gap between the holosuite doors and the carpet. Within seconds, it had coalesced into a familiar, and very beige, form.  

Odo looked around in bewilderment, steadying himself as a holographic Nausicaan slammed full-force into his shoulder.

“Judging from the energy output I would have surmised this to be one of Quark’s more _elaborate_ holosuite programs. You surprise me, Jake.”

“Not you,” muttered Jake under his breath. “Look, I never meant for this to happen. Groucho somehow got root control and I don’t know enough about holo-programming to switch him off. You’re not going to arrest me after this, are you, Constable?”

“That remains to be seen,” replied Odo.

“It’s not just you, Jake,” O’Brien called out from the control panel, wreathed in circuitry and brandishing a wrench. “I can’t seem to lock him out either. What’s more, he’s configured the doors to allow entry, but no exit. I haven’t seen a locking algorithm this sophisticated since -”

“What’s all this?”

Quark peered anxiously in, batting away curious holograms and derailing O’Brien’s train of thought.

“My replicators are down and my customers are revolting!” the bar’s proprietor declared. The holosuite doors promptly clanged shut behind him, catching his coattails between them. Panicking, Quark made a vain attempt to wrench himself free.

“Hmph. You _always_ say they’re revolting,” retorted Odo dismissively. He picked a narrow corner of the room and crouched in it, so as not to be jostled further.

“Like I wasn’t having a bad enough day already,” remarked Quark, glaring at the unhelpful holographic masses and unhappily resorting to removing his jacket. “Now I get locked in a holosuite with _you_ – and it’s not even a fun type of locked up, or a fun type of program!”

“You’ll survive, I’m sure,” said Odo, wryly watching Quark elbow his way through the crowd.

“I won’t enjoy it,” Quark assured Odo as he sat down next to him, brushing dust off his waistcoat and sleeves.

“There, there,” comforted Odo dryly. He pulled Quark into a gruff embrace and began stroking the top of his head; visibly relaxing with every caress, Quark struggled to maintain a neutral expression.

“I mean, look at the kind of drivel my nephew’s best friend thinks up,” he complained, waving a vague hand at their surroundings before resting it on Odo’s chest. “He’s a bad influence, I tell you. Now Nog’s got his _Federation ideals_ and his _root beer_ and his _morning class with Worf_ –“

“I wish to speak to Quark,” intoned an affronted voice.

Quark glared up at the glowering Klingon who had interrupted his tirade. “Speak of the devil,” he sighed.

“What are you doing in here? Why are the replicators down? You know very well that I come to the bar every morning at ten hundred hours sharp and order a prune juice. Extra large.”

A holographic hand gave Worf a sympathetic clap on the back. “My good man,” said Groucho, “hasn’t anyone told you that if you take cranberries and stew them like applesauce, it tastes much more like prunes than rhubarb does?”

Worf blinked, flummoxed in the extreme. “Who is this _p’tak_?” he roared, addressing the holosuite at large as he gestured pointedly at Groucho Marx. Groucho, for his part, puffed cheerfully on his cigar in eloquent silence.

“It’s a long story,” a very grim Odo replied.

“Oh, great. Morn, _Morn_ \- don’t come in here: we’re locked in.”

Over the commotion, Morn’s response only registered with Quark.

“You want to join in solidarity with your trapped brethren?” the bartender repeated, his features the picture of incredulity. “All right then; don’t let me stop you. Knock yourself out.”

As Morn took a ponderous step over the threshold, Groucho made his way through the crowd of holograms in order to greet him. “Finally, some intelligent conversation,” he remarked, throwing an arm around Morn’s shoulders and steering him into the thick of the action. “You remind me of my brother Harpo. He never shut up either.”

The holosuite doors hissed open once again.

“How many times do I have to say it?!” objected Quark. “Don’t come in here! Bar’s closed! There are no replicators in the holosuite! Oh Blessed Exchequer, it’s Vilix’pran and his twelve children…”

There followed much holographic jostling to accommodate thirteen new occupants. Odo’s combadge trilled, prompting Quark to clap a hand over his ear.

“Dax to Odo. Do you read me?”

Before Odo could respond, Quark had seized his shifted lapel with both hands and was screeching desperately into the combadge.

“GET US OUT OF HERE, JADZIA!!!”

Odo shot out an involuntary appendage to ease Quark away while he tapped the badge to respond. “Loud and clear, Commander. You are no doubt aware of the situation at Quark’s by now.”

“Yes, and I’m glad you’re in there – something inside the holosuite was jamming Federation _and_ Bajoran frequencies. Your combadge emulates a Bajoran frequency but does not overlap with it one-to-one –“

“I am aware that I don’t do frequencies very well, thank you,” snapped Odo with bad grace. Did she have no tact? Quark was right there, listening in, and certainly did not need to know about any further shapeshifting struggles of his. Quark had already offered him unsolicited advice to try a hypospray, and that had been an awkward enough conversation as it was.

“However you mimic frequencies, don’t change it in the next five minutes. Listen. I haven’t been able to glean details of the program itself, although I’m still trying to bypass all of Quark’s privacy encryptions.”

“You can _do_ that?!” Quark shrilled in alarm. Dax paid him no heed whatsoever.

“All I can tell you at the moment is that the hologram is an extremely powerful, next-generation, cutting-edge prototype. Quark probably paid out the ears for it,” she added wryly.

Quark quailed under Odo’s disparaging scowl. “I had a…shall we say… _discerning_ customer,” he ventured. Jadzia seemed not to require a detailed report from him, however, and continued.

“This prototype will bypass safety protocols, power allocation and other user settings _dynamically_ as the character sees fit. To avoid potentially dangerous situations, each one comes with a specific verbal override.”

“You mean a safe word,” remarked Quark, recognition dawning on him like a rare clear day on Ferenginar.

“One could put it that way, if one were so inclined,” replied a noncommittal Dax, though she obviously caught Quark’s drift and caught it well. “All you have to do is know the phrase and address it directly to the hologram. Luckily for you, I happen to have done some digging.”

Odo and Quark both leaned in close to Odo’s combadge, the better to hear Jadzia; as a result, their foreheads brushed together to form an uneven steeple. In the thick of their uncertainty, neither paid this any heed.

“The default override phrase for this model is, and I quote, ‘why a duck?’.”

From a span of a few scant centimeters, Quark and Odo exchanged dubious glances.

“I can offer no explanation, gentlemen,” admitted Dax. “The rest, I’m afraid, is up to you.”

The comm link went quiet, leaving only ambient holographic chatter in its wake. Quark overheard an argument about the economic inadvisability of having multiple children. For once, he could care less about butting in and trying to disprove that old canard.

“I’ll do it,” rumbled Odo grudgingly, beginning to shift himself up and out of Quark’s grasp. At this, Quark only held him all the tighter, squeezing him around the middle as if he were a tube of toothpaste.

“Why do you always want to get up and leave every time we cuddle?” he protested. “Do you have any idea of what that does to my self-image, Mister Colder Than A Breen Winter?”

Glaring dull daggers at Quark as he returned to his form’s usual confines, Odo willed his body temperature up ten degrees.

“Hey!” exclaimed Quark, but seemed to adapt once one of Odo’s already comforting arms morphed into a blanket. Placated for the time being, he snuggled up on top of Odo as cozily as he could and closed his eyes, sighing contentedly.

“Better?” Odo murmured, fighting to keep the smile out of his tone. Judging from the dead weight of the compact form atop his, Quark was already half asleep.

“Much. Now don’t get up,” commanded the bartender in a sleepy voice.

“Not _ever?_ I will have to at _some_ point.”

“But I like being trapped in a holosuite with you,” Quark whined. “I thought you’d know that by now.”

“These other people might not like it quite as much,” the constable reminded him.

“They have terrible taste. Screw ‘em.”

“Ever the noble altruist,” Odo commented dryly.

“Guilty as charged,” admitted Quark as he suppressed a yawn. Odo made his blanket-arm more plush and rested his chin on top of Quark’s head, letting his own gaze rest behind parenthetic eyelids. There was, after all, little enough harm in waiting a few minutes to approach the rogue hologram. After all, what could possibly befall the station at large while its most notorious petty criminal snoozed blissfully in his arms?

Abruptly, the clamor and rustling of countless holographic individuals came to a halt. Jake once again found himself without a chair and tumbled to the ground, cursing. Quark woke with a jolt: to Ferengi sensibilities, a sudden vacuum of sound often proved more disconcerting than its opposite.

“Hey, wait a minute. What happened?” Bemused, he blinked up at the black-and-golden grid surrounding them. “Did someone _else_ say the passphrase or something?”

“I suppose someone must have,” responded Odo. Neither of them seemed terribly inclined to move.

“But how can that be? It must be a thousand-to-one chance that someone would say that exact phrase to our holographic friend without consulting Dax.”

“I don’t know…but I intend to find out.”

Trading apologetic glances, they disengaged from each other and rose to their feet. The rest of Groucho’s former captives were crowding around Vilix’pran and his children, offering adulation and hugs. For his part, Vilix’pran was disclosing the details of the last few minutes with no small measure of alacrity. He made emphatic gestures with his wing-tips as he spoke.

“…well, he kept insinuating that I couldn’t possibly afford so many kids, so I became annoyed and started talking back to him. We traded a few insults, all in good fun of course, and eventually he told me that I resembled nothing quite so much as an Earth duck. I merely asked him how he came to that conclusion, and he vanished. Just disappeared. I hope it wasn’t something I said…”


End file.
